To Finish That Thought
My brother and I had hopped on a commuter train and headed for downtown Toronto. Our plan was to wander around the Canadian National Exhibition for a bit, indulge in our annual falafel sandwich for dinner, then head over to the Molson Amphitheatre to take in the ZZ Top show.
We knew that the ZZs were on a bill with those country boys, Brooks and Dunn, so we took note of set times, bought general admission tickets, then wandered around. Round about 8:30, we thought we’d go in and try to find a good seat.
That’s when it happened.
Somewhere in the course of our wander, we somehow were transported from a music amphitheatre in downtown Toronto to a beer-soaked honky-tonk somewhere in south Texas. (I was tempted to say Alberta, but while they have just as many country music fans, they also have more class.) There were cowboy hats and boots everywhere. The place reeked of spilled beer, and empty cans were scattered in the aisles. In the front rows, video cameras zoomed in on inebriated bleach blondes with ample cleavage and straw stetsons (summer-weight, I suppose). On stage, the music was blisteringly loud.
Gerry (the fraternal unit) had worked on shows with Brooks and Dunn before, and somehow found, deep down in his soul, an ability to tolerate them. I wasn’t so virtuous. As the middle-aged country-pseudo-rockers strutted about the stage and belted songs about believin’ and hurtin’ and drivin’ trucks and drinkin’, their audio technicians pushed their mix to deafening heights. Both my brother and I resorted to paper towel earplugs and fans around us shrieked even higher than the high notes, danced in the aisles, and guzzled more beer.
I thought I’d been abducted and relocated to a parallel universe. Honestly, it was like nothing else I’d seen before.
WHERE did all these bumpkins come from, I asked myself. Could they have been bused in from Oshawa, a once-thriving auto manufacturing hub that has been decimated by recent spikes in fuel prices and massive layoffs? God knows they do their share of drinkin’ and hurtin. Were they from Windsor? From somewhere up north? Or were these my neighbours? Sadly misguided music fans, living an otherwise anonymous urban existence, enjoying their one night of the year to go completely out of their minds?
I couldn’t answer the question. I just wanted it to end. That’s when I came up with the Hell analogy.
As Brooks and Dunn took their second encore and protracted stage bows, many of the bumpkins bolted. Gerry and I sat in higher-priced seats without any grief, and waited for the “Little Ole Band From Texas” to take the stage.
And it was worth the wait.
Billy, Dusty and Frank have been playing together since 1969 or 1970. They’re not primpers or preeners, and they don’t engage in exaggerated showbiz moves. They’re straight-ahead southern rockers with a formidable catalogue to share with their audience, and share they did. The boys with the beards and cheap sunglasses played an entertaining, solid and outright fun hour-and-ten-minute set; good enough to make me forget the opening act and stop asking the question “WHY Brooks and Dunn?”
